Threads
by Shiguya Retomasi
Summary: One life is linked to another by threads we cannot see, let alone understand. But even if they are unseen, these threads of fate bind every living thing together into an ever growing tapestry we call life.


Disclaimer: anything you recognize from the anime, manga, or other published work is copyright the respective owners. Everything else is mine, so please don't be a thief; Shadowbane doesn't appreciate it.

An expanse of white stretches as far as you can see; a maze of light and shadow that once provided ample hiding places but now has been replaced by ever shifting snowdrifts and patches of bare ground. Weak sunlight filters down through a maze of evergreens, creating a twisting trail of glittering snow and pockets of shade, too far apart to form a safe path. Twin jets of steam swirl around your whiskers, curling like evanescent fingers in the cold air before fading.

Food is scarce, even for those smart enough to collect things that won't rot in the dampness. It wouldn't be so bad, but a larger Rattata recently bullied you out of your nest, forcing you to scrounge for what little food you can find. Should have fought harder, but being hungry is better than being dead. Of course, that doesn't make it any easier to find anything in a bitterly cold wasteland.

Winter is a hard time-no ripe berry bushes, no nuts lying on the ground, no insects to dig up. Only cold and predators await you out there-starve or outsmart, that's all you can do. You chitter in annoyance, glaring at the skeleton of your favorite tree as if staring long enough would cause it to suddenly fill with nuts. As if in mockery the skeletal branches stared back, rows of icicles grinning like translucent fangs in a maw formed by a maze of branches.

A growl from your stomach ends the staring match, bringing your current problem back into focus. No food stores due to being bullied out means scavenging for whatever edible things you can find, while also dodging predators who are sure to be just as hungry as you are. On top of that, the tips of your paws feel like something's poking them. You paw at the ground, trying to rid yourself of the annoying feeling before hopping forward, struggling to move through the frigid landscape.

Snow crunches underpaw with every step, filling the void where Pidgey's song and other sounds should be. Why can't it always be spring? No getting bullied out of your nest, lots of places to hide in, and plenty of food. Not snow everywhere and far too much open ground to feel safe. And not so damp, either. You shiver inwardly, resisting the urge to stop and shake off the melting snow-better to find food and shelter, than get caught off guard.

The air is mercifully still for once, granting relief from the bitter winds that always come with the snow. It does mean scenting danger is much more difficult, but not having your nose and ears torn at by icy gusts and clouds of snow makes up for it. If only-what's that? You pause mid step, glancing nervously around you. Too quiet to be a-instinct kicks in as the shadow of something large passes overhead; in a blind panic you charge through the snow, seeking only to find shelter from whatever was above.

The world moves in a blur-pulse thundering in your ears, hooked talons stained with blood lashing out, seeking purchase in anything soft-a small knothole looming ahead, the promise of safety mere steps away-an ear piercing screech cut short by something heavy crashing into a tree-dry grass and fur underpaw-a single taloned foot reaching into your hiding spot-a pair of golden eyes glaring at you-a large bird flying off awkwardly-several feathers settling on the ground like umber snowflakes.

Your heart hammers in your ears, drowning out all other sounds from the outside world. You bite back a nervous chitter, claws scrabbling for purchase against the smooth interior as you wait, staring at the small entrance hole. It could return at any moment-it could be out there, waiting for the right moment-it could be watching now! You shiver inwardly, flattening yourself against the wall and watching.

Terror slowly gives way to hunger and pain, forcing you to release your death grip on the soft wood. With a chitter of relief you begin drop to all fours, staring at the discarded feathers intently. For a moment you consider seeing if they're edible, but dismiss it quickly-too high a risk of the shadowy thing returning if you go outside. Better to wait a little longer, see if it returns.

With the immediate danger past you begin to take notice of your new refuge: the entrance was just about right; small enough to keep a predator's head out, but large enough for something a bit larger than you to squeeze in easily. A fine layer of wood dust clings to the floor, giving the nest a musty smell, one that masked the scent of whatever the current-or possibly ex-owner is. Why would such a secure nest be empty, though?

Shrugging off the thought you lean back on your haunches, licking at bits of wood caught under your nails. With that done you rub your face down vigorously, glancing around the nest between strokes. Something had collected enough dried grass to line the floor with a thick padding. That same something had also collected, or made several white and teal balls of fur. And that something had once had a store of food, judging by the scattered acorn and walnut shells mixed with the fur and grass.

Satisfied with your quick cleaning job you drop to all fours, pawing at a few acorn husks hopefully, finding nothing but unappealing bits of dried shell and a few oran seeds. Chittering in annoyance you push the sharp bits aside, grabbing one of the seeds and chewing on it slowly. It's not much, but food is food at this point-and where there are seeds, there could be forgotten nuts too. And scavengers can't be picky in the cold season.

The bitter tang of the seed only worsens your hunger, drawing a loud growl from your stomach. It may be food, but that doesn't make it pleasant-almost better to eat bark than gnaw on bitter pits. You snap your tail in annoyance, clutching the dark pit in both forepaws and staring at the cottony tufts of fur. Not a Rattata, or anything else you'd seen before-must be a tree-creature, or some strange ground bird.

You swallow the mouthful of bitter pit-pulp with a grimace, nearly gagging from the aftertaste. Discomfort is better than starvation-at least you try to tell yourself that. You spit out a few splinters of pit, rubbing a pawful of the grass floor-lining to remove the gritty remains. With your hunger quieted down for a little bit, you give your muzzle a full cleaning, taking great care to get the last traces of that horrible berry pit out of your fur.

What kind of creature would pull its own fur out and make balls out of it? Not one to be a slave to curiosity, you approach the strange nesting material, sniffing the closest lump of fur. A strange scent clings to the shiny fur, almost like roasting walnuts mixed with some sort of rodent-the scent is old, like something left-without warning, a jolt of electricity arcs from the downy ball, zapping you on the nose.

Pain lances across your muzzle as you hop back from the dangerous fur, snapping your teeth at the violent tuft and hissing loudly. When no further attack comes you reach a tentative paw forward, smacking the offending lump of snowy fur toward the entrance-receiving another painful shock for the effort. You chitter in anger and pain, glaring at the cottony ball as it floats through the air, landing just inside the nest without a sound.

The scent of singed fur hangs in the air, adding insult to injury with every painful breath. Stupid attack fur, must be an electric type that claimed this nest. The prospect of claiming it now looks less appealing; you know from experience that fighting with electric types is painful, and even if it didn't return you would have to clear out the zap nesting. Then again, it could make a nice deterrent for predators-a painful one for you as well, but a little shocking could be worth it. Maybe.

A quiet growl from your stomach, followed by the bitter taste of bile and foul berry pit bring your current problem back into focus. You can worry about the nest and whatever foul creature claimed it later, now is a time to find food before darkness falls. Swallowing hard to keep the meager bit of food down you walk slowly toward the entrance, taking care to step around the ball of fur lying nearby.

You steel your jaw, struggling not to let your teeth chatter despite the sudden shock of returning to the cold snow. Even if it was only a short break it felt nice to rest in the shelter of a nest-a violent and painful on, but still a warm place to rest. You pause halfway out the small knothole, rubbing yourself down one last time, fluffing up your violet coat in a vain attempt to ward off the chill before stepping back into the frozen world.

But where to go? You look up at the tree line, sighing inwardly at the deep orange glow filtering through the thinned canopy. Night is approaching fast, too fast. Soon the sky predators will be out, searching for anything stupid or desperate enough to forage in their domain. And if not them, the cold is just as lethal-you know that one too well, having seen other lives ended by it. Pushing the thought aside you begin struggling through the snow, determined not to suffer the same fate.

Snow clings to your underside like mud, sapping what energy you can muster to keep struggling forward. You chitter in annoyance, pausing under the shelter of a low hanging branch and pawing at the clingy lumps of snow. Why does it have to be so cold sometimes-it's a pointless question, but one that refuses to show any sort of answer. It's the only season you know of that doesn't have any sort of eggs to steal, or berries-or much of any food for that matter. The thought of Pidgey eggs sends a shiver down your spine, followed by a loud growl from your stomach. Yes, terrible season.

In the fading light, shadows morph into invisible demons; barren branches becoming deadly claws searching for their next victim; mounds of snow growing glittering eyes, watching for the right moment to attack; icicles rattling in the breeze conceal the snapping of predators' teeth, preparing for the coming hunt. You shiver inwardly, trying to block out the fear as you finish grooming yourself. Find some food and return to the zappy nest, that's all you have to do.

Satisfied with the quick job, you give yourself one final shakedown to remove the last of the snow and sniffing the air. Not that it's doing much good. Between the dampness and several broken branches somewhere nearby, anything important-both food wise, and threatening-is choked out by the sickly sweet stench of tree sap and wood. Growling softly in annoyance, you hop over the mound of snow you just brushed off, glancing around the area once again before continuing on.

Maybe it's too cold and getting too dark for anything to be out, maybe you're alone in the woods for-what was that? You freeze mid-step, instinctively flattening yourself against the ground. It could have been a branch snapping from the snow, yeah that could-the sound of bark and ice crunching echoes through the forest, followed by something like glass bottles rattling together-you squeal in fright as a chunk of ice the size of your leg lands in the snow inches from your nose. Without thinking you tear off in a random direction, dodging falling spikes every few steps.

Pulse thundering in your ears you run, blindly charging through the snow-icicles rain down like translucent teeth, ready to bite into snow and flesh with equal effect- landscape blurs into a mass of white and brown, direction stops having meaning-something must be following you, sending frozen teeth down from the sky-imagined predators in pursuit you dash through a scraggly bush, biting back the urge to squeal in pain as dried branches rake across your body-silence as you hunker in the meager shelter, heart hammering in your chest.

Terror flows through your body like icy water, numbing muscle and nerve as you stare, watching for any sign of danger. A few icicles stick out of the snow like tiny pillars, glittering in the dying sunlight. Just ice teeth… probably knocked down by a Pidgey. You try to breathe calmly, letting the thought ease the terror clawing at your mind. Stupid birds, scaring you like that-didn't even call out warnings either. You growl in annoyance, kicking at a branch jabbing you in an unpleasant place.

Soon, hunger and a growing pain from several thorns digging into your skin forces an awkward retreat from the brittle shelter. You chitter in annoyance, standing on your hind legs and picking at a thorn caught in your chest fur. Stupid ice teeth falling and chasing you like that. Wincing, you pluck the offending thorn out and toss it aside. You just want to settle down for a-you pause, sniffing the air hopefully. Not bothering to pull the other thorns out you bound off, following the smell of what you hope is food.

Numb from the cold, hungry, and still irritated from the intimate encounter with a bush you stumble onward, pausing every few steps to confirm that the overripe stink is getting stronger. The sweet stink of tree sap is mixed in with it, but you dismiss it-probably one of those tan monsters having passed through, that's all. Soon you come upon an odd sight: several branches lay across the ground, which fail to conceal a small hole in the ground. Forgetting caution, you charge forward, a bead of drool trailing behind as you make a mad dash toward the half-hidden cache.

Despite the throbbing pain, the stench of a sugary berry-overripe, judging by how sharp the smell is-is overpowering. Gingerly you begin pawing through the assortment, feeling just as much as sniffing for the hidden treasure-you pull back with a muted growl of annoyance, rubbing your paws against the ground to remove the offending gunk from them.

As the initial shock wears off you sniff your paws, reeling back from the overpowering stink of overripe Bluk berry. The sticky juice clings to your fur, staining your normally white tipped paws a deep shade of purple, mixed with bits of dirt from the futile attempts to remove the offending juice. Normally it wouldn't be a problem; a few minutes of grooming to get the worst of it out, and deaden the scent is all it takes. But exposed to the cold, the berry mush begins freezing on your paws. You quickly stuff both forepaws in your mouth, feeling a mixture of enjoyment and annoyance at your makeshift sweet-treat.

Despite the foul taste of dirt mixed with it, the bittersweet mush causes you to lick and gently gnaw on your paws with gusto, a thin bead of drool falling from your overstuffed jaws. The sticky juice burns on your tongue at first, like the saltiness of Pidgey eggs, mellowing into a sugary, almost syrupy aftertaste. You roll your eyes back, nearly gagging on your paws as you swallow a mouthful of sugary juice and saliva,

With your paws damp but cleaner you take them from your mouth, fighting down a shiver as the cold air meets damp fur. The now partially squished berry catches your eye, several tiny seeds shining like flecks of onyx against the deep purple berry mash. You greedily reach for it, grasping the squishy mass gingerly between your paws. The treat is nice, but it takes too much effort to re-clean your paws after all. In that brief moment, you become aware of an odd smell… threatening, but stale. You shrug it off as something that passed by a while ago, and delve right back into the cache.

There's a faint stink of rot from the mushy berry, you ignore it. It won't make you too sick, and such a rare treat is too welcome to ruin by being cautions. Without further hesitation, you stuff the dark mass into your mouth, shivering inwardly from the burst of bittersweet hitting your tongue. Berry juice oozes from the sides of your mouth as you chew, which you quickly clean with a swipe of your paws. Eat now, clean later; especially when another could come along and steal your treat.

Something at the back of your mind nags at you; it doesn't feel right to find such a cache by chance. Berries usually rot or become inedible by now, yet you found one that was only beginning to rot. And that scent on the branch is odd too. You click your incisors together in thought, pawing through the nuts looking for the choice bits. It's only paranoia, that's all. Better to eat and run, than try to worry about the why's and get eaten.

A particularly large acorn catches your attention, pushing the odd scent matter aside. Gingerly you wrap your forepaws around the ice encrusted nut, growling in frustration as it slips through you paws. Again you try to grasp the slick shell, nails scratching the rich brown surface as it flies out of your grasp, landing in the snow a few steps away. You glare at the fallen acorn, briefly considering chasing it down but deciding not to. There are others in there, and that stubborn one can wait.

You turn your attention back to the shallow hole, scanning the ice and dirt marbled inside for something else appetizing. Besides your sweet treat nothing looks particularly appealing; a few acorns were clustered together, the sharp tips sticking up like tiny spikes. Near them were a few tan and brown speckled pecans sat amidst another walnut-smaller than the one you just ate, and not worth the effort just yet. Then you spot something just right: Peanuts! Two of the oddly shaped shells rest atop a layer of pine needles, their sandy shells standing in stark contrast to the deep green needles they rest upon.

With an excited chitter you pounce on the sand colored shells, gripping the rough surface of the larger one with ease. It takes little effort to lift the knobby shape from its resting spot. The hollow nut rattles softly, as if protesting being disturbed-you shiver inwardly, savoring the sound just as much as the coming flavor-without warning, a torrent of icy water hits you in the stomach, leaving you soaked.

Shrieking in panic you drop the peanut, turning and stumbling through the snow in terror. A second blast of water tears along your left flank, leaving a slushy path carved into the snow, and sending you tumbling to the opposite side. Half blinded from the onslaught you pick yourself up, running on pure instinct as whatever attacked you growls-heavy footsteps pounding in pursuit. You don't dare risk a glance back out of fear of crashing into something.

Numbness spreads through your muscles, despite the demands your mind screams at them-ice forms over your left eye, welding the lid shut-the prickly feeling from earlier returns, spreading down your spine as you slow down, breathing hard-a third blast slams you in the back, forcing your numb body into the snow-spots dance across your vision from the pain, blurring the form of something large standing over you-the predator flashes you a toothy grin, needle-sharp teeth standing out against deep blue fur-a mouthful of ivory descends, grabbing your neck-no pain at all as they sink in, preparing for-


End file.
